Looking Glass

by Christina Henry

  “What was that?” Nicholas said sharply. “What was that about a girl on a string? Do you know her?”

  “Yes, a girl on a string. Tied like a balloon to Rabbit’s wrist so that she won’t float away into the sky.”

  “Do you know her name? Why does Rabbit keep her like that?” Nicholas asked.

  Cheshire’s expression refocused, and he raised an eyebrow at Nicholas. “Why so interested, my lad? She’s not for you. She belongs to Rabbit, and that one will never let anything go until he’s used . . . it . . . all . . . up.”

  He drew this last bit out, emphasizing each word.

  “Besides, it’s not as though she was beautiful,” Cheshire said.

  Nicholas should have known he was being baited. He realized that after. But in that moment he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help saying, “I think she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  Cheshire pushed a finger into Nicholas’ arm. “I had you marked as a knight from the moment I saw you. She slayed you with those mournful eyes. Going to rescue her from the tower, are you? Going to whisk her away to a better life?”

  Nicholas knew when he was being mocked. “And what if I am?”

  “How do you think you’ll free her from her dragon? Do you think Rabbit will hand her over if you only ask politely?”

  “No, I—” Nicholas started, then stopped. He had no earthly idea how he might do such a thing, how he might convince Rabbit that the sad, pretty girl belonged with him.

  “Rabbit will never give you anything for free,” Cheshire said. “And if you want it and he knows you want it, he’ll make certain it costs more than you ever thought you’d be willing to pay. What would you give him for that girl, bloody Nicholas? Are you prepared to pay?”

  Nicholas shook his head, suddenly angry. “What’s it to you, then? Why do you care?”

  Cheshire looked away, giving his shoulders an elaborate shrug. “It’s nothing to me. I was only giving you a bit of friendly advice. It makes no difference to me if you succeed or fail, and since you’ll probably fail I should have saved my breath.”

  “Well, you’re supposed to be giving me advice about how to use the Sight,” Nicholas said. “That’s what Dan hired you for, isn’t it?”

  “Hired me?” Cheshire said. “There was no hiring, boy. Dan asked a favor of me, with the knowledge that I would one day ask a favor in return. It speaks volumes about how he feels about you that he was prepared to give that favor, not knowing what I might ask for.”

  Nicholas felt a warm glow inside. Dan cared about him. He wasn’t just another fighter. That glow was immediately dashed by Cheshire’s next words.

  “Of course, it might simply speak volumes about how much he has at stake in this fight. If it happens that you’re not much to write home about, as they say, then Rabbit will come and visit Dagger Dan again. And this time the visit won’t have such a pleasant outcome.”

  Nicholas felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the air.

  “If Dan promised you a favor then you have to help me, or else you can’t ask for the favor back,” Nicholas said.

  “Well, I did only promise to come and have a look at you, and see if you were worth troubling about,” Cheshire said. “So I could say that the terms were already fulfilled, really.”

  “That’s—” cheating, was what Nicholas was about to say, only Cheshire turned those jewel-bright eyes on him and now they were blazing.

  “Don’t think you can dictate to me, boy,” Cheshire said. “Don’t mistake me for some silly oddity that you can dismiss. I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know.”

  A cold wind blew, making Nicholas clasp his hands together and blow warm air on his fingers. He nodded. He couldn’t have done anything else in that moment.

  Cheshire smiled then, and the cold wind dropped away. “Now that we have that settled. As I was saying, Dan asked me to come and have a look at you. I have done that. But I don’t know what I can teach you that you don’t already know. You were already using the Sight.”

  “But I don’t know how I do it,” Nicholas said. “It just comes over me.”

  “And that, my boy, is how all magic works. Whether it comes in a trickle or comes in a flood depends on you. If you’re frightened of it, or push it away, then it will emerge when you least expect it to, in flashes and fits and starts. If you’re relaxed and open then those visions will come steadily, and you’ll learn to accept them as truth. But I can’t teach you how to do that. That’s something for you to determine.”

  Cheshire’s shoulders moved a little, the tiniest of shrugs, as if to say, What can one do? I don’t make the rules.

  “So you can’t really help me, not in the way that Dan thinks,” Nicholas said. “But what should I tell him if he asks me what we talked about while we were walking out here?”

  “Tell him the truth—that I gave you advice to help you control the Sight,” Cheshire said. “You won’t have to tell any lies if you don’t want to, bloody Nicholas. Such a good and honest killer you are.”

  “I’m not a killer,” Nicholas said, staring at him.

  “Sure about that?” Cheshire asked, and he smiled that too-wide smile once more.

  Nicholas was about to say he was sure, that it wasn’t the sort of thing one could mistake about oneself. Then he remembered that strange flash—his hands blood-soaked and holding an axe, and bodies all around him.

  “I see you aren’t sure about that,” Cheshire said, and nodded in satisfaction.

  “Just what kind of Magician are you?” Nicholas asked. He felt confused, and irritated on top of it. “When Rabbit tried to do, well, whatever it was he tried to do in the club everyone could tell. Everyone. There was a feeling in the air, like lightning before a storm. But I don’t think he can do half of what you do, and you do it all without anyone ever noticing.”

  “Well, who said I was nothing but a common Magician?” Cheshire said. “I am something that cannot be explained, something far, far more wonderful than Rabbit and his play-magics. There is nobody in all the City like me, dear darling bloody Hatcher.”

  “My name’s not Hatcher,” Nicholas said, but it rolled off his tongue like it belonged there.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot. You like to be called Nicholas now.”

  A strange thing seemed to be happening. It was like Cheshire was gradually disappearing before Nicholas’ eyes, bleeding out like ink-covered paper in water.

  “Cheshire?” Nicholas said, but in the half breath it took to say the man’s name he was gone. The only thing that remained was a kind of afterimage of his smile, floating in the air, and as Nicholas blinked that disappeared too.

  “I almost forgot,” Cheshire said, and his voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “You asked me a question that I never answered. I know it’s very important to you.”

  “What is?” Nicholas asked.

  “Her name.” The voice was fading now, whipping away in the air.

  Nicholas’ heart leapt. “What’s her name?”

  Hattie. It wasn’t a voice now, more like an idea that sort of drifted inside Nicholas’ head. Her name is Hattie.

  * * *

  Nicholas had never been inside a carriage before. In point of fact a large number of the Old City streets weren’t even wide enough to accommodate them, and the few conveyances in this part of the City tended to be taxis that ran along just a few roads.

  The carriage was waiting in line at a checkpoint between the Old City and the New. It wasn’t completely true that there was no way between the two parts of the City. Commerce and people did flow between the two, although it was strictly regulated and didn’t flow so much as trickle. Anyone who wanted to pass between the two Cities needed a stamped letter of permission from a City Father.

  Since the City Fathers lived in the New City this wasn’t exactly an easy
object to attain if one lived in the Old City, and that was how the City Fathers liked it. They weren’t interested in making it simple for the rabble to pollute their beautiful shining City.

  The process first started with applying at one’s local police station, and “apply” was well-known to mean “bribe.” If you gave the correct amount of money to the correct person (and this was by no means guaranteed, as the correct amount of money and the correct person seemed to change as frequently as the sunrise) then your application was passed on to the Old City governor. There was one, it was said, though Nicholas hardly believed it. No one had ever seen such a person. No one even seemed to know where he lived.

  The governor would read over the application (which, of course, came with its own packet of money to compensate the illustrious person for their time) and if one’s cause was deemed worthy enough to be seen by a City Father then it would be passed on.

  The City Father was the final arbiter of one’s cause. If this most important individual deemed one’s application was valid then a stamped letter of permission for a specific purpose and length of time would wend its way back to the police station at the Old City, where of course the applicant would have to pay over an “acceptance fee” to retrieve this precious piece of paper.

  If the acceptance fee wasn’t to the presiding officer’s liking then the letter would be withheld until the individual came up with the correct amount—again. Sometimes the letter might be auctioned off to someone else, if the applicant wasn’t able to pay.

  And of course, if one was from the New City and wanted to pass into the Old City one didn’t need any such letter. They only needed to obtain a silver chit from the guardhouse as they entered, and simply show it to the guard when they chose to return to their clean, safe home.

  Many young men from the New City liked to taste danger on the streets of the Old City, to roll with the whores who flashed their wares in a way that no respectable girl of the New City ever did. If they were robbed by gangsters or had their watches picked from their pockets then what of it? Their fathers always gave them more money to spend when they got home, and they would have an amusing tale to tell over cognac.

  Sometimes young women from the New City would come, too, looking for the same sort of adventure as the young men. But of course the kinds of adventures that happen to young women are never the sort that you tell over cognac, and they usually leave scars.

  Whenever Nicholas saw young ladies of this sort—giggling and thinking they could come into the Old City and have a round at the bar, flirt with some gangster and go home—he would try to warn them off. If they listened he made sure they got safely back to one of the checkpoints. If they didn’t listen there was nothing he could do, really, except cover his ears against the screams he heard outside his window in the night.

  There were only two official checkpoints into and out of the New City—one on the east side, and one on the west side. The east-side checkpoint was where they waited for their turn, the carriage rolling forward a few scant inches every few moments. The guards at the checkpoints were known to scrutinize every letter, checking and rechecking the stamps and seals to make certain there was no attempt at forgery.

  Nicholas had heard tales of those who tried to forge letters. These tales were never told by the person who did the forging, because those persons were dragged away and never seen again. Stories like this were the reason that forgery was not commonly attempted.

  The carriage had been sent by Rabbit, although it wasn’t his seal on the door. That was the family seal of “some flash bastard,” as Dan called him, and Nicholas took this to mean that while Rabbit might be the Grinder’s patron that there was another patron above Rabbit himself.

  This, Nicholas reflected, was very likely the person who was bankrolling this endeavor, and the reason why Rabbit had been so anxious to take Nicholas’ measure. Whoever put up the money for the fight would want to see a good return, and a good return meant lots of betting on the match.

  This betting was about more than just the winner of the match or even a round. Gamblers would bet on everything—who would throw the next three punches, whether or not they would land, if one of the fighters would get a broken bone or a lost tooth. And wealthy gamblers would throw away huge amounts of money on these minute outcomes.

  A good long fight with the Grinder had never been seen, and therefore the possibility of all those small bets had been eliminated. For a while Grinder’s fights had still made money, for people came just to see the carnage, and would toss their coins on bets to see how long the other fighter could withstand the beating. But soon enough it wasn’t interesting to see Grinder mutilate another poor sod.

  Nicholas understood from Dan that Rabbit—and his backer—had hyped this fight up in the New City like no fight had ever been before. Nicholas himself had been proclaimed “the only man alive who could make the Grinder go three rounds.” He hoped like hell that he could dance out of Grinder’s reach that long.

  He felt like he hadn’t slept properly since the day he saw Hattie. Every night he dreamed of her, dreamed of seeing that sad face lit up in a smile, dreamed of dancing with her in a quiet room where he could hold her close. He’d wake up aching all over, his body and mind desperate for this impossible dream, and he would toss and turn until the sun filtered through the tiny window.

  Dan saw his haggard face every morning and assumed Nicholas was nervous about the fight, and spent lots of time clapping him on the shoulder and saying that he shouldn’t worry.

  But Nicholas wasn’t nervous about the fight. He was only worried that she might be there to see him lose.

  The carriage finally reached the checkpoint. Nicholas thought the soldiers would open the doors and ask about their business, but everything seemed to be quickly and quietly conducted by the driver. After a moment they moved on.

  “I hate to give Rabbit any credit at all, but without the seal on the side of this door we’d have been there for a lot longer,” Dan said, rapping the side of the carriage with his knuckles. “It’s not usually this easy.”

  Nicholas didn’t say anything. He moved the curtain aside so he could look out the window. He’d never seen the New City up close before.

  He’d seen the shining buildings, of course. Once when he was small he’d climbed to the top of the wall that ringed the Old City. It had been the hour just before sunrise, and the soldiers who were supposed to patrol both sides of the wall were dozing on their feet. He’d slipped between two of them and scampered up, finding handholds in places where there didn’t seem to be any. Then he’d curled into a seat, his arms wrapped around his knees, and waited for the sun to come up.

  He’d seen the first touch of the sun on the roofs of the New City, roofs that were clean and neat and cared for. Little puffs of smoke emerged from chimneys as the morning meal was put on, and soon the scent of bread and bacon wafted up to him. His insides had gnawed with hunger, for Bess hadn’t had much work lately and there wasn’t enough food to go around—not nearly enough to satisfy a young boy.

  People emerged from the houses, people that Nicholas recognized instantly as servants (they didn’t have that snooty air that he associated with the wealthy). These servants would polish the front windows or bring a carriage around for their master or sweep the walk.

  That impressed Nicholas more than anything—that in the New City everything was so clean that people even had the public sidewalk swept. Not that there was anything to sweep, really—no broken bottles or cigarette ends or empty fish wrappers or puddles of blood that needed to be cleaned before the day’s business could begin.

  Then one of the soldiers had looked up and seen him and shouted for him to get down from the wall. He did, and tried to dart away before the man could cuff him, but the soldier was faster than he looked and snagged the collar of Nicholas’ shirt. He’d given Nicholas a black eye and a split lip, but Nicholas had gotten his reve
nge when he staggered forward and pretended to be dizzy, grabbing onto the soldier’s leg. The man had pushed him away in disgust but Nicholas had already palmed two coins from the man’s purse.

  He’d run off then, eye swelling, lip bleeding freely, but he went straight to the baker and bought a whole loaf of bread for his own self and had eaten it in an alley before he went home to Bess. The other coin he’d saved for another day when there didn’t seem to be much to eat in the house.

  Nicholas had been six on that day.

  Now he was almost eighteen, a man instead of a boy. But as he looked at the clean streets and gleaming doorknobs and the very fine people strolling about he still felt the same gnaw of hunger in his guts, and knew it had nothing to do with food.

  It didn’t seem so very much to ask, really, to be able to eat when you were hungry or to walk in the street without smelling the stink of dead things.

  Those people out there, they know the Old City is a terrible place. It’s so terrible that they won’t even look at it if they can avoid it. But still they leave us there. Still they don’t even try to help.

  He turned his head away and shut the curtain.

  The carriage went this way and that, and then slowed and halted. Nicholas heard the driver jump down from the box. The door opened before Nicholas had a chance to grasp the handle.

  “Gentlemen,” the driver said, indicating they should step out. Nicholas had to give him credit. When he said “gentlemen” it sounded like he meant it.

  They were in an alley behind a very large brick building, but it wasn’t an Old City alley. There was no stink of filth or leering prostitutes. It wasn’t that much different from a regular street except that there was less light. One gas lamp burned above a white door with no sign on it.

  Dan knocked on the door while Nicholas shifted nervously beside him. Now that they were here, now that the fight was upon him he felt all the jitters he’d been suppressing rise up.

  Please don’t let me make a fool of myself in front of everyone. If I have to lose, at least let me lose well.